23 April 2010

Spontaneous Appearance Of Fish Eaters

IIII ) lllllll Spontaneous Appearance Of Fish Eaters (23Apr10)

1816 Sspopiikimi - with just a couple hours of light left to work with, after a day stacked with meetings, we make our way out here, where we find the first aiksikksksisi (white nose or american coot) has returned to midpond

1830 There was rain last night, and a bit of a temperature drop, and this seems connected to a very conspicuous absence this evening. For two days before the rain, the trail along the west length of the pond was occupied by dozens, if not hundreds, of variegated meadowhawks. Today, we've walked the distance and not seen a one

1834 The water in the pond has risen a bit, but the island aapsspini mamas are still quite safe. All four active nests seem to be doing well, though we won't be able to really confirm the midpond nest until tomorrow, when we can get out on the wet meadows

1837 As for the remainder of the waterfowl count, there are six geese on the neighboring golf greens (four of which are likely husband ganders), and four in the south shallows below the blind. There is a mi'ksikatsi couple sitting beside the ksisskstakioyis, and the scabby redhead couple are here in the south pools. We're sure the visual absence of mallards is an indication of the nesting that is underway, and again we're hoping to locate at least some of these on the wet meadows over the next couple days

1904 We waste no time moving down onto the peninsula, then through the bulberry brush and around the south pool, staying low instead of hiking the levee trail. In the process, we scare up another mi'ksikatsi pair who are resting on shore beside the cattail marsh. Within the marsh itself there is a second chuck-chucking coot. We notice that the wetness and/or cold has had a similar effect on all the pollinators that it has on the dragonflies. They're absent. All we see are tiny gnats and clover loopers (the moth that's been out for a few weeks now)

1911 Soon we are at the blind and picking asparagus. We've been neglecting our responsibility to gather some of the first of the season plants: the asperagus, musineon root, the young leaves of lens-podded hoary cress. If we don't get to work on these, we'll miss the opportunity entirely

1915 Mahoney notices something I've missed entirely. There are fair-sized clumps of green algae starting to form in the shallows. Every year, as things warm up, the pond goes through a cycle that Mahoney compares to a yeast infection. Soon enough there will be algae covering most of the pond, a massive flare-up that reveals the most used beaver trails. Just as soon afterward though, most of the algae clears again1949 After picking around by the blind for a bit, we walk the transition zone between the forest and wet meadow, looking for more asparagus. It seems to grow best in these areas, amidst patches of buckbrush and prickly rose, on slopes near water. All in all we get only a handful of shoots

1957 Coming back up through the forest at its north end, and crossing the levee to the cutbank overlooking Oldman River and the big island which houses several more goose nests, we notice fish jumping in one of the calm, deep pools. Then Mahoney looks upriver and says excitedly, "Who's that?" There is a massive, second-year bald eagle perched in a snag poplar not more than sixty or seventy meters from us. We sit down right here to watch

2006 The eagle's not the only one hunting these waters tonight. As we sit and wait, the first belted kingfisher of the season comes winging and chattering past, flying low over the surface below us

2021 We wait while the eagle scans the water below him. We wait while he preens. We wait while the first bank swallows of the season reveal themselves, darting in and out of a burrow in the cutbank, swooping over the river. We wait while the eagle shits, then stretches its wing, then shits again. We wait while a beaver swims closer and closer from upriver, stepping out on the bank to pull roots here and there, probably unaware of the enormous and dangerous bird perched above. And finally, after all the waiting, the eagle hops, pumps its giant wings, lifts, passes over us, and disappears downriver

2053 With the eagle gone and the chill of night sinking in, we round north pond, moving toward the truck. But before we go, we want to make one last stop at one of the older asparagus plants. As we move through the absinthe toward it, on the edge of the cutbank above north pond, I see there are several thick shoots ready for harvesting. They're so nice, when I spot them I say, "Wow!" This exclamation provokes an even bigger surprise. One of the older members of the ksisskstaki family is right there at our feet. We hadn't even noticed. It ran a few steps, then stopped and went back to eating absinthe greens. It didn't mind at all that we were there beside it. We videotaped and photographed it until the beaver had its fill and moved back down the cutbank into the water. What a great way to conclude what I originally thought would be an uneventful evening walk

Obsessing On Purpose

Like most living beings - human or otherwise - I have cultivated a number of behavioural routines and aesthetic predilections that bring structure, or perhaps a sense of security, to my everyday life. In some instances, these quirks and habits border on the embarrassingly obsessive-compulsive. For instance, at nookoowa, I routinely make sure that anything situated on tables or counters be set in an alignment parallel to the edges. Sometimes, nipiitaam or nitana will offset things purposely, just to watch me run around straightening them. On the other hand though, I prefer our tables and countertops to be absolutely empty except when in use, and all items that might otherwise be placed upon them to be neatly stowed away in closets, trunks, and cupboards. I also try to make sure that any like-type objects that happen to be stored on a shelf - such as books, video games, compact discs, statuettes, picture frames, what have you - are neatly aligned and arranged in some pleasing order. My bed must always be made, unless someone’s in it, and nothing beyond sheets, blankets, or pillows belongs on it. It bothers me when clothing is tossed on the floor, or draped anywhere other than on hangers in our closets. Furniture, in the form of couches, cushioned chairs, dining sets, etc. strike me as clutter, limiting the spaces that one would otherwise have available to conduct creative activities. I prefer to sit on the floor, with just a pillow or folded blanket for support. I don’t like any lighting except that which comes from naato’si, nor prolonged periods of electronic noise. The different foods on my plate cannot touch, unless we’re eating Mexican, in which case it must all be mixed together into a bean, cheese, and rice paste. And I don’t think sinks are places to keep dirty dishes, or sponges, or globs of fallen toothpaste… although they are for cleaning such things immediately. The list could go on, all these partialities that are so rarely realized to my satisfaction. The truth of the matter is, in the long run, most of my aesthetic habits bring me more irritation than comfort. Yet I continue to uphold them all the same.

One of my greatest obsessive-compulsive behaviours, a massive sink-hole of energy, and that which applies more than any other to the present project, is an overwhelming desire to document periods of transition in my life. I’ve been journaling since I was about twelve years old, using this practice as a surrogate companion of sorts, with whom to discuss the occasionally strange (and often mundane) changes I’m constantly attempting to make in my life, in whatever direction I happen to be exploring at the time. Over nearly three decades, I’ve experimented with a wide variety of media, from classic stationary and blank books, to audio notes, photography, film, sketching. I’ve written in both first and third person, I’ve tried to approach the practice as story telling, as ethnography, as documentary, as art. But my trouble is this… for me, the final product of my efforts is never good enough. I’m constantly shifting tactics and media. I’ve probably made some stationers fairly rich. In fact, any new idea at all can compel me to destroy prior work and start anew, because my sense is that a fresh journaling project is like an opportunity for the redefinition of self. It’s a personal renewal. A cleansing, a chance to make a vow and completely transform the narratives that guide one’s experiences. An old journal, on the other hand, one that no longer accurately reflects my sensibilities or interests in the present, is to me a blemish, an imperfection, a blatant reminder of the self I’ve already outgrown. Such past projects are like carelessly wrought sculptures, beyond repair. And so I must begin, again and again.

Now I know, some may say that for the artist it is the process that matters, not the product. And there are examples from around the world to demonstrate this claim. There are the Tibetan sculptures made from butter, which melt in the sun. The sacred sand-paintings of the Navajo, scooped-up and discarded at the close of their healing ceremonies. Origami cranes, floating down the rivers of Japan. There are all manner of ikitstakssiistsi to look toward as monuments to the significance of process over product. True. I don’t deny it. But these examples involve at least two aspects that my journals do not. First, they are almost always seen to some stage of human completion, each creative act having a very defined conclusion, the point at which they are left in sacrifice to the sacred beings, the ancestors, the future generations. Which brings up the second distinction they have from my journals – these creative acts are also highly spiritual, inaugurating, feeding, or renewing sacred relationships. And while my journaling practices have always nurtured, I’ve never really approached them as offerings to the forces that sustain my life. Rather, and perhaps sadly, I feel deep down that they have been little more than tools for fostering detachment, as if the immediate activities involved in my pursuits for growth and transformation are somehow not enough in themselves. And I’m aware that it is in large part my history of exposure to an immature and ego-centric global ethos that has conditioned me to such hollow practice.

There is another (and related) reason why I tend to discard imperfect or outdated journals, over-concern myself with the organization of items on my shelving systems, fret obsessively over household clutter, etc. It is because I have been enculturated in an aesthetics that defies nature by placing all like items together, and all unalike items apart. It’s a system partial to concrete categories, surface in its emphasis, allowing little room for metamorphoses, transfigurations, or interconnectivities. In fact, it is a way that fears these complexities and the potential loss of present form. A journal, by its very nature of recording a series of thoughts and life experiences, all of which are unalike except by means of their association to a single person in the midst of constant change, somehow simultaneously calls-to and troubles this aesthetics. As typically carried out, a journal is in essence just another means of imposing false order on the flow of life, both by objectifying experience and by organizing its representation into segments of a linear-time framework that is completely removed from the shifting cyclicality of the natural world. My fluent relationship with both kinds of awareness has, in a sense, rendered me bipolar. I strive for a certain level of systematicity, all the while knowing full well that such order reflects an impoverished approach to negotiating the human condition.

Perhaps what I’ve needed all along is a healthy recognition of both the limitations and potential functionalities of record-keeping practices, particularly in the traditions of aokstakio’p and aisinaakio’p… this, followed by an alterative adoption of those beneficial techniques and media from the established global culture, inwardly, in a manner that augments rather than re-shapes niitsitapia’pii. I am lucky, in this sense, to be already engaged in a learning process through iiyaohkimiipaitapiiyssin, which I’m sure will offer many insights along the way. But all the same, I know that to achieve my vision, to revitalize forms of niitsitapi record-keeping through my journaling practice, I will have to work much more closely with those constant resources I can trust - niitsi’powahsin, akaitapiitsinikssiistsi, ki nipaapao’kaanistsi. I will also need to develop a habit of respecting the advice of my own deeper intuition, and begin responding regularly to the voices of the sspommitapiiksi, ksaahkomitapiiksi, and soyiitapiiksi of kitawahsinnoon. My hope is that in blogging the present journal, Akayo’kaki A’pawaawahkaa, I can explore and perhaps realize this interest. And if nothing else, if the urge to renew strikes again, all I have to do is hit DELETE.